Victoria followed him in. They sat at a marble topped table, flooded with light by incandescent gas. In the glare the waiters seemed blacker, smaller and more stunted than by the light of day. Their faces were pallid, with a touch of green: their hair and moustaches were almost blue black. Their energy was that of automata. Victoria looked at them, melting with pity. 'There's a life for you,' said Farwell interpreting her look. 'Sixteen hours' work a day in an atmosphere of stale food. For meals, plate scourings. For sleep and time to get to it, eight hours. For living, the rest of the day.' 'It's awful, awful,' said Victoria. 'They might as well be dead.' 'They will be soon,' said Farwell, 'but what does that matter? There are plenty of waiters. In the shadow of the olive groves to-night in far off Calabria, at the base of the vine-clad hills, couples are walking hand in hand, with passion flashing in their eyes. Brown peasant boys are clasping to their breast young girls with dark hair, white teeth, red lips, hearts that beat and quiver with ecstasy. They tell a tale of love and hope. So we shall not be short of waiters.' 'Why do you sneer at everything, Mr Farwell?' said Victoria. 'Can't you see anything in life to make it worth while?' 'No, I cannot say I do. The pursuit of a living debars me from the enjoyments that make living worth while. But never mind me: I am over without having bloomed. I brought you here to talk of you, not of me.' 'Of me, Mr Farwell?' asked Victoria. 'What do you want to know?' Farwell leant over the table, toyed with the sugar and helped himself to a piece. Then without looking at her: 'What's the matter with you, Victoria?' he asked. 'Matter with me? What do you mean?' said Victoria, too disturbed to notice the use of her Christian name. The man scrutinised her carefully. 'You're ill,' he said. 'Don't protest. You're thin; there are purple pockets under your eyes; your underlip is twisted with pain, and you limp.' Victoria felt a spasm of anger. There was still in her the ghost of vanity. But she looked at Farwell before answering; there was gentleness in his eyes. 'Well,' she said slowly, 'if you must know, perhaps there is something wrong. Pains.' 'Where?' he asked. 'In the legs,' she said after a pause. 'Ah, swellings?' Victoria bridled a little. This man was laying bare something, tearing at a secret. 'Are you a doctor, Mr Farwell?' she asked coldly. 'That's all right,' he said roughly, 'it doesn't need much learning to know what's the matter with a girl who stands for eleven hours a day. Are the veins of your legs swollen?' 'Yes,' said Victoria with an effort. She was frightened; she forgot to resent this wrenching at the privacy of her body. 'Ah; when do they hurt?' 'At night. They're all right in the morning.' 'You've got varicose veins, Victoria. You must give up your job.' 'I can't,' whispered the girl hoarsely. 'I've got nothing else.'